


Stopping, Starting.

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Greg and Mycroft are friends, M/M, That talk of sex and cigarettes, Wonder where that'll take them!!!, it's fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 03:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16188848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: Based on the prompt generator's wise words:Your dialogue:"Can I change your mind?"and"Is this all of it?"The circumstances...at homein autumnAnd you must mention...cigarettes





	Stopping, Starting.

**Author's Note:**

> It feels weird to not have posted anything in weeks. Here's to getting back into things.

It’s Stoptober. Again. Greg has been seeing the ads all around the city, and now there’s one in front of his house too. Why they think October would be a good time to quit smoking is beyond him, it’s not like it’s cold enough not to want to go outside, it’s not even hot enough not to want to go outside. You barely have to deal with nagging family in October, no holidays at all, and... Alright perhaps that explains.

He’s tried before, of course. Even did it a few times, quitting. But now he’s old and it hasn’t been cool in several decades, he doesn’t have a wife that smokes anymore, and walking the stairs is hard enough as is. Maybe it’s time to try again. It’s late and already the 2nd when he downloads the app. This time it’ll work.

The next morning, he meets up with Mycroft for coffee, as they do every Wednesday. Every Wednesday since Sherlock asked Greg to take care of him that is.

“Hi,” he grins, and Mycroft looks him up and down with a deep frown.

“Can I change your mind?”

“No,” Greg laughs, and he nods at the door of the café. When they’re sitting down, cheeks rosy from the autumn wind, smelling like dead leaves and fresh air, he thinks of something.

“You should join me.”

“No,” Mycroft decides, immediately. “Absolutely not.”

But Greg is relentless. Over their coffees they talk not of work, not of Sherlock, not even about Eurus. They talk about the first cigarette of the day, the relief, the relaxation. The coughing.

“I think my favourite is sharing one after sex,” Greg says, stealing Mycroft’s biscuit. It’s not like he ever eats them anyway. Mycroft flushes red, looks him dead in the eye, and says the most baffling thing Greg’s ever heard.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Never?”

“Sharing a cigarette after sex? No. It’s oddly specific Gregory, I doubt I’ve missed out on a universal experience with this one.”

 “You haven’t been paying attention,” Greg says, making a face that becomes a wide grin when he sees Mycroft’s raised eyebrow. “Tell me you’ve cuddled?”

“Of course,” Mycroft nods, “a hearty slap on the back and sometimes a handshake before I leave the house.”

Greg can’t help but giggle at Mycroft’s tone. “At least you didn’t say hotel room.”

“Hotel rooms in Oxford? Back then? We would’ve been expelled before even making it back to the college.”

“Can’t imagine wondering around the wrong hallway at night would be less obvious?” Not that Greg’s ever been. “Also, please tell me you’ve had sex since uni.”

Mycroft smiles, “I’m gay, Greg. Men visiting each other’s rooms was not so strange. And since then it has been mostly hotel rooms. Which have smoke detectors.”

“Ah,” Greg feels his cheeks heat as he stares into the depths of his crusty cappuccino mug.

“Apologies if that’s...” Mycroft pauses and he never pauses so Greg looks up into worried grey eyes. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of _conversation_.”

“Banter,” Greg finds a smile to ease along the worried look. It helps a little. “Quit smoking with me.”

“I’m going to be extremely irritable,” Mycroft warns.

“I’ll know who to blame if the North Koreans flatten us all.”

“Sweeten the deal for me, why don’t you.” He rolls his eyes as he says it and Greg still manages to choke on a crumb. He knows he’s bright red by the time he’s breathing normally again, and Mycroft doesn’t look much better.

“I’m so – ”

“Stop.” He sounds raspy, and takes Mycroft’s hand out of mid-air. Holds it so he’ll stop fluttering about. “I’ve suspected it for ages and thought it was wishful thinking. You don’t make me uncomfortable.”

Mycroft’s lips open just a little bit as his face relaxes. Soft and pink. His eyes are wide open in surprise.

“You don’t have to do anything with this information,” Greg promises. He doesn’t want to make his stupid crush into a larger thing than it needs to be. “Just, I threw out all my cigarettes yesterday and I can come over tonight so we can throw out yours and start this quitting thing off on the right foot. I can cook something up with all those fancy ingredients you insist on letting rot in your fridge.”

“Dinner?” Mycroft asks, still surprised. Not displeased.

“Unless – ”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to interrupt. “No. Seven.”

“Alright.” They can be friends. Greg can be friendly.

 

When their drinks are done, Greg gets up, leaves a few coins behind for a tip, and spends the rest of the day thinking about it. Did Mycroft want to be friends? Did he go too far? Was that too much? Why was Mycroft so surprised? How could he not have seen this coming? Had he hidden it that well? Did Mycroft want it too? Should he have kissed him?

 

That night, Greg shows up exactly at seven, one decision firm in his mind. Tonight he finds out if _gay_ means _into greying coppers_. He’s hungry enough to think he might be imaging the food smells hanging in the air, but when Mycroft opens the door in his shirtsleeves and socks and the wine-red apron, savoury smells surround him. He’s temporarily overcome with affection for all the effort Mycroft’s put in, and loses his ability to think before he speaks.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he grunts, absolutely unable to stop himself. “Did you actually cook?”

“Lasagne,” Mycroft says, instead of hello. Not that Greg’s complaining. He wants food and kissing and everything else too. “We’ve twenty more minutes until it’s ready, I thought we could...” He looks back over his shoulder where there is an enormous pile of cigarette boxes, in the middle of the hallway tiles. Greg laughs and is already hanging up his coat, closing the door, admiring it from all angles.

“She hides them around your apartment in case you’re moody?”

Mycroft smiles at him, bright and happy. “I think I’ve found them all. I have to say I’m impressed.”

“Should donate them to a homeless shelter or something.”

“Sherlock’s coming to pick them up,” Mycroft nods his head and Greg follows along into the warm sitting room. There’s a pile of wooden boxes on the table. “I emptied out my humidor.”

“Keep them at the club,” Greg tells him. “You can use them for work. Is this all of it?”

Mycroft ducks his head and they walk to the kitchen together.

“You have a waterpipe.”

“It was a gift, a long time ago.”

“Crap,” Greg hops onto the kitchen island, feet dangling. Pours them both a glass of wine out of the decanter. “Does that even count? Waterpipe’s not so bad, right?”

“I’m not sure.” Mycroft steps closer, his hair looks soft and his cheeks look warm. “We’re drinking too, I know I’m not exercising enough, and both of us could stand to work a little less. If it were about healthy living, those things would be mentioned too.”

“I think,” Greg takes Mycroft’s free hand and pulls him in closer still. Trusting he’s not misreading the situation terribly. “That this is a one at a time kind of thing.”

“What’s next then,” Mycroft breathes against his cheek, standing between his legs.

“I tell you I’ve wanted you for ages,” Greg promises, “and you tell me you want me too.”

“For ages,” Mycroft sighs. Somewhere between wonder and a promise.

 

He tastes like wine and warmth and home.

 

 


End file.
